


Away

by kaermorhencalls



Series: The Legend of Denmark and Norway [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Injury, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Memory Loss, References to Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29625120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorhencalls/pseuds/kaermorhencalls
Summary: Mathias does a stint in Valhalla without his husband. It's worse than the torture the Dane has endured in his life.
Relationships: Denmark/Norway (Hetalia)
Series: The Legend of Denmark and Norway [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103720
Kudos: 7





	Away

**Author's Note:**

> Hej! TL;DR: Mathias is Denmark, he died from getting the plague after WW2 due to some fuckery and treachery. Aleksander is Norway. Njörðr is the Vanir God of the sea, seafaring, wind, fishing, wealth, and crop fertility.

The moment of mortality, when the life you are living becomes the life you once lived. It is not something Mathias enjoyed experiencing, and in retrospect, it was the worst thing to happen to him. At least this very last time was, watching himself die in his husband’s arms, drowning in his own blood that soaked into Aleksander’s shirt like seawater on a sailor’s tunic, pouring from his nose and mouth with every gurgling, wet breath.

Valhalla awaits. While Aleksander may not have heard the beat of Valkyrie wings over the cries of his own grief, Mathias could hear them as little more than the rush of air past raven’s wings, long black silken feathers cutting through the air.

Eir is the one to take him, her wings long and gilded, made of sunlight while her sisters flanked her, eyes of molten ice and burning while their wings were black like night, like the ravens of his husband. Her hands are gentle, he remembers as he stood bedside and watched his husband fall apart at the seams, his handsome, blood-smattered face twisting in pain, then in rage, and a flurry of other emotions that even Mathias could not fathom.

Her voice is but wind over a snow-capped mountain, a gentle hand taking his. His other is taken by Sigrún, and Róta follows behind while the rest of the valkyr act as escorts.

Mathias does not remember the trip. He does not remember the transition from Earth, from Midgard, through the branches of the Yggdrasil, and over the Bifrost, but he knows this distance is one he had traveled.

Some things are too hard to grasp, even for the dead.

The grief has him stricken, tears unceasing and dripping down his chin, his neck, sinking into the bloodied fabric of the shirt he was still wearing, the set of pyjamas he was in so distinctly his husband’s that it hurts to even realize.

The first thing he heard in Asgard is his own pained sobs, begging, pleading with the valkyries to take him home, that he needs to go home, that he isn’t supposed to be here.

Such a cavalcade of winged maidens drew the attention of the Aesir in attendance in the Hall of the Gods, and one Vanir who was visibly pained. Odin, Thor, Freyja, Tyr.

And Njörðr.

The Vanir approaches with haste, the humidity of a summer spent on the shore and the warmth of sand radiates from him. He is of the sea, as Mathias is, and the Dane is pulled to him like the tides to the shores. The pained wails of said Dane cut through the festivities in Odin’s hall, the fallen heroes having gone silent.

This was not a homecoming of joy. This was the theft of life, and even the fabric of the realm Asgard seemed to understand, as her skies grew cloudy, thunderheads looming above like an ungodly threat. One that made even Thor pause.

“I need to go home,” The Dane choked out, his lungs burning like he had drowned and been revived. “I can’t leave him, I can’t–”

“Hush,” The old seafarer murmured, allowing the young man to sink against his chest, a hand resting upon the Dane’s back. “Hush, sweet child. You are safe here.”

Mathias’ cries did not even begin to taper off. If anything, such reassurances made his sorrow greater. “I don’t want to be here!” He shrieked, shoving uselessly against the Vanir as the old god merely gazed on, seafoam eyes full of shared pain.

He could feel as the Dane did, could feel the pain of a severed bond of the one he loved so dear.

Njörðr shot a look towards the rest of the gathered Aesir, and Odin and Thor approached at a careful walk. It was as if there was something fragile among them, and they feared breaking it.

Time moves differently in Asgard, Mathias notices, when hours do not pass as he feels they should, and the sky never fully grows dark. Like Norway in Summer.

Most of his time is spent down on the shores below the Bifrost, away from the hall and the Aesir that watch him with saddened eyes. He doesn’t want their pity, doesn’t want their stares. He just wants to go home.

“Come.” The Vanir calls Mathias one afternoon, not too long but also far, far too long after he arrives. Mathias just washes his hands in the briny seawater, letting the ocean retake the sand in the same way he wishes Midgard would retake him, before walking up to the older man. It was now that Mathias noted that he looked familiar, though he knows he has never seen Njörðr before.

His was a face that existed in all sailors, all people whose lives were touched by the sea. Weathered skin, greying hair and beard, a warm presence like every deckhand Mathias had ever known. Familiarity set the Dane at ease, though the grief still had him silent most of the time.

Even Thor could not pull too much more than broken, mumbled words from the Dane.

They went to the natural spring outside of the hall, far enough away that the festivities that never ceased in Odin’s Hall was nothing more than a soft hum. Here, they sat and watched through the crystal clear waters upon Midgard below.

Thor would join them at some point, allowing Mathias to whip up a storm of his own, to wield his hammer and conduct a symphony worthy of the God of Thunder himself.

Yet, nothing would coax him to speak. Not even his patron willing to share his gifts.

“I want to go home.”

It was the only thing Mathias said most days, often warbled through broken tears as he sat at the reflection pool, his heart pouring out of his chest as he watched his Aleksander have to go on without him.

“This happened for a reason,” Njörðr tells Mathias one day. “The Fates wind the threads this way and that. We must endure such hardships. Young Dane, I do not believe this to be the end of your string.”

“And yet I am here, in Valhalla,” Mathias croaked, chin resting on his knees while his arms were wrapped around his calves. “While Aleks suffers without me. We’re both alone, and we’re worse off because of it.” He turns his head to stare at the old god, eyes bloodshot and his face permanently tear-stained. “This is not a gift. This is punishment. This is torture.”

“Were we not good enough sons?” He sniffs, pleading eyes locking on Njörðr’s sullen face. “Is this because of the Christians?” There had always been that nagging at the back of Mathias’ head ever since he was a boy.

“No, no, dear boy.” The Vanir sits beside Mathias, legs crossed. “When the time is right, you will return.”

Mathias witnessed too many midnight suns in Asgard to count, he had shunned a proper bed and room to stay at the spring, to at least have the sight of his husband to keep him company. The Aesir visited him daily, Thor recounting tales of his youth with his brothers and all of the stories that Mathias knew, but with details, he did not.

When he could have anything he wanted here, there was nothing that could fill the gaping maw of loneliness in his chest.

Eventually, he slept. Right there on the cool grass beside the spring, fingertips dipped into its waters.

He felt like lead waking up, everything was darker and heavier like he’d been wrapped in lead. He could hear Aleksander talking to him, though the words were hushed and garbled and it just felt like some dream.

But, Mathias could feel his hands wrapped around his own and knew he was home again.

“Thor tells…tells really, really long stories…”

What exactly was said over the next few hours, Mathias could not readily remember. There was a flurry of familiar faces, relieved and kind faces, teary faces. But the only one that mattered to him was the face of his scruffy, exhausted husband sitting at his bedside.

When the activity had settled and Aleksander laid beside him, Mathias could ask for nothing but his husband, wanting to drown his loneliness in his arms and make him forget an eternity without him. Weak hands grasped at his Norseman’s shirt, pulling fruitlessly until Aleksander kissed him, and Mathias swore that death would not have him anymore.

For death without his beloved was no respite from pain. 


End file.
